


Against the Tide

by havisham



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
Genre: Gentlemanly Handjobs, M/M, Old Sport, POV First Person, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 19:29:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I could not leave until I had said goodbye to Gatsby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Against the Tide

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle XV, with the prompts: pool and tuxedo.

The August heat pressed down on me like the hand of God. I was twitching to get out of my stifling tuxedo, which had arrived this evening clean and pressed, with a note in Gatsby’s own hand, begging me to wear it. And wear it I had, and enjoying, for a time, the feel of almost unbearable luxury against my skin.

I looked like a different person in Gatsby’s tux -- slightly wicked and devil-may-care, the mannish version of the those girls in glittering dresses who fluttered in and out of Gatsby’s house that summer. Jordan cast me a long, considering look when she saw me at first, and plucked a red rose from the fulsome bouquets that anchored the entryway to Gatsby's palace.

“Here,” she said, her teeth very white against the scarlet of her lips. I almost kissed her then, but she slipped away with a little mocking laugh before I could.

But as the night progressed, and I consumed more and more of those finger-bowls of champagne, my opinion of Gatsby’s gift degraded until I couldn’t wait to get the devilish thing off. In the madness of the moment, I went to the veranda and looked downward to the wide expanse of Gatsby’s swimming pool. Its clear waters and gleaming white marble seemed to sing to me with its own siren’s song, and I thought that I could leap off the veranda and into the pool, tuxedo and all.

Jordan had abandoned me long ago, and so I went to hunt for Gatsby. It was getting late -- or early, since it was long past midnight -- and one by one, Gatsby’s guests were drifting off into the still darkness of early morning. I, of course, needed only to cross the carefully mowed lawn to my own palatial estate -- mine for eighty dollars a month.

Besides, I could not leave until I had said goodbye to Gatsby.

But of course, he proved as elusive as ever. I worried that I had become less interesting for him when he had realized that for all my connection to Daisy Buchanan, I could do nothing to advance his case with her -- a case that, in my heart of hearts, I thought diminished him. This, of course, I would have never dared breathe in Gatsby’s direction, for I knew by then that for all of his jovial manners and careful diction, Gatsby was a soul in need of protection of some kind.

The world handled some of us with rough hands, and, despite all his wealth and success, I believed Gatsby was one of those unfortunates.

I leaned heavily against the doorframe, and peered into the room within, leery of any surprises lurking within. To my relief, it was empty, and so I began to strip, taking off first my tie and then my jacket, Gatsby far from my mind. It was a small, impersonal room, decorated in the latest style. The bed looked uncomfortable and never slept in, but when I sat on the edge of it, I saw that it was freshly made, the sheets still crisp.

I was sure that Gatsby would not mind if I slept there. And as if summoned by my thoughts, the familiar sound of Gatsby’s voice startled me out of my dreamy contemplation. “There you are, old sport. I was looking for you.” he said, appearing like a ghost at the doorway. He smiled that special smile of his, as if he knew that I would, naturally, forgive him his boldness.

“How did you like that tuxedo I sent you? I meant to send Alfred along --” Alfred was his valet, a secretive-looking man with the quietest steps I knew -- “but,” Here, he shrugged helplessly, as if no one could guess at the ways of valets and men. “You looked well anyhow. Very well!”

He looked me over, with no trace of disappointment over my half-dressed state. But still, I felt the need to defend myself.

“I was hot," I said, pulling unhappily at my collar, “I felt like going for swim in that pool of yours.”

“Well,” Gatsby said, laughing, “why don’t you?”

It took several moments for me to realize that he was serious. I got up and came to him, peering into his face rather owlishly. For the first time, I seemed to discern some flaw in Gatsby’s appearance. His cheek was rough with stubble, and it was a sense of genuine curiosity that propelled me to do what I did next -- namely, to put my hand on Gatsby’s cheek and kiss him. 

I had some experiences in New Haven -- brief flirtations that meant nothing, with men -- boys -- who were largely dead, or at least, remembered nothing of me, anyway. And if Gatsby had really attended Oxford, as he claimed, he would be familiar with such practices as well. And so, I prayed that he would not take it badly.

I need not have worried. Gatsby pulled away -- regretfully, it seemed, and he looked at me, his eyes bright. “Well, what do you say, old sport? A midnight swim?”

Wordlessly, I nodded and followed him down the halls, the steps, all those vast, echoing spaces of his empty house. The lawn was already wet with dew and chilly wind blew in from the Sound. I began to regret my rashness in speaking -- in acting -- but Gatsby seemed entirely unaffected by both the wind and my state of mind. His back was straight as a ruler -- every drill sergeant’s dream -- and I thought, suddenly, I could believe every lie he told me, if he told them only to me.

I instinctively trusted Gatsby with my secret -- I knew there would be no future unpleasantness with him, or oily letters demanding money, wondering how my family should feel if…

Gatsby turned to me and smiled again. “Well, sport. Here we are.”

I unbuttoned my shirt and dropped my trousers. It had become a point of honor for me. Gatsby, however kindly, had issued a challenge, which I believed I was equal to. Soon I was shivering in my undergarments, waiting for Gatsby to do the same. He did so with the grace I had often seen as he drove his magnificent car, with a sort of naturalness that gave the lie to his other more obvious affectations.

He was also the first to get in the water and I joined him soon after, biting back an exclamation over the cold. We began to swim, warily keeping to opposite sides of the pool. With the moonlight and lights from the house, it could have been daytime.

I bobbed along, feeling like a fool, when Gatsby disappeared from sight. I thought for a moment that he might have drowned, but then I dismissed that thought as unlikely. I remembered the smooth strength of his muscles as he had taken off his shirt. Gatsby was an athlete that time had not yet wrecked.

I felt something pulling at me from below the water and Gatsby surfaced, water dripping off every part of him. He cornered me against the tiled edge of the pool and kissed me, passionately and long until I felt quite weak, unable to continue and reluctant to stop.

“Nick," he said, in a low, urgent voice. I blinked in surprise. Perhaps it was due to my foggy drink-induced memory, but I could not think of a time that Gatsby had called me by my name. I had a sneaking suspicion that he did not know it. But I was wrong, as I often was when it came to Gatsby.

“Nick,” he said again, realizing that I hadn’t been listening to him.

“Yes?” I said, dreamily, pushing a wet lock of hair away from his face. I ran a careful hand down his cheek, thrilling in the roughness of his cheek, the shape of his jaw. Perfect. He was perfect.

“I can’t -- you know, old sport, I have --”

“I wouldn’t dream of imposing on you, Gatsby,” I said gently, reaching down and slipping my hand underneath the waistband of his briefs. I watched his face as I slowly brought him off. He blushed and bit his lip, looking down at the water. When I relinquished my claim on him, he looked up and said that he ought to return the favor.

“No need," I said, feeling oddly shy. I swam to the ladder and pulled myself out, the weight of the water on my skin momentarily staggering me. I could hear Gatsby’s light steps behind me. He didn’t bother to pick up his clothes, so neither did I, and we looked at each other, suddenly cautious.

“I better get back,” I said, nodding awkwardly to the direction of my little cottage.

But Gatsby merely shook his head and said in a voice that brooked no contradiction, “You’ll do no such thing. Come inside.”

I followed him obediently back inside the house. By now, some staff were awake and beginning the slow work of setting the house aright for another day, and another party. None of them looked up as we passed them; they were used to odder sights than that of their employer, in his undergarments and dripping wet, followed by an equally wet, equally naked guest. Gatsby no doubt paid them well for their discretion.

We went up to a bedroom wholly unlike the one I had been in earlier. It was larger than my entire house and furnished so richly that it came within a hairsbreadth of being completely tasteless. It was Gatsby’s bedroom, of course, and I could not quite rein in my curiosity when it came to its contents. I had no expectation that I would see it again, so I thought, naturally, that I might as well commit the place to memory.

The bed, which was near a bank of windows that overlooked the Sound, was over-large and over-stuffed. It did look comfortable, I admit, but it was far too much of a good thing. 

Gatsby disappeared for a moment before returning with soft towels, scented faintly with lavender. I did my best to dry myself off, before launching myself into that ridiculous, wonderful bed of Gatsby’s. I bounced and turned over on my stomach, laughing like child.

Gatsby came toward me, his face eager. I wondered, with a pang, if he saw some resemblance between my features and Daisy’s, and suddenly I had this crazy determination that for one night, for one moment, Gatsby would forget Daisy, that he would belong, completely, utterly, to me.

I sat up, my movements more self-conscious than before. “Come here," I said huskily, and Gatsby, ever the gentleman, complied with me. I wondered about him, if anyone had ever really gone through the trouble of properly seducing him, after Daisy -- or before. He melted quite easily under my caresses and it seemed that he would come again.

“O-old sport," he said brokenly, and I could not laugh at his eccentricities then. They were too human and too dear. Instead, I hushed him with another kiss.

*****

At some point in the night, Gatsby slipped away. I woke to to find myself alone, and rummaged through the drawers of his bedside table until I found a pack of cigarettes (gold-tipped, of course) and a book of matches. Once again, my thoughts turned to the enduring mystery of Gatsby. Was he a gambler, like Wolfshiem? Or a bootlegger, as one of the girls had guessed on my first night here... It was true that champagne and liquor flowed freely during Gatsby’s wild soirees, but I had never seen the man drink a drop of that stuff. 

It depressed me to think of Gatsby’s potential criminality. I preferred the thought of him collecting rubies instead, the glow from them dyeing his face red. Like blood…

I shook my head sharply. Lack of sleep always brought out in me a tendency toward morbid thoughts. I had smoked about three or four of Gatsby’s cigarettes when he returned, already dressed for the day. He gave me a shy, almost apologetic smile, and I held out the pack of cigarettes, which he took with exacting care.

I found a robe lying on the back of a chair -- it was red silk, and once I wore it, made me feel like a champion boxer -- and followed him to the windows. Smoking, I watched the dawn rise over East and West Egg alike, while Gatsby watched for some secret sign that I was shut out from, something only Gatsby knew.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Grania for beta-ing.


End file.
